


Why Tyler Brown Should Listen To His Own Advice

by cathedralhearts



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, but then it goes AU for the 2012-2013 season, stupids in love trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 07:19:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathedralhearts/pseuds/cathedralhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Or, five times he decides Tyler Seguin is actually going to kill him)</p><p>Tyler Brown is bad at self-help, at emoting and at dealing with his issues in the typical way of a relatively successful young man in modern society. Tyler Seguin manages to be just as bad at all of that, too. They're kind of perfect for each other?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why Tyler Brown Should Listen To His Own Advice

**Author's Note:**

> I’m kind of handwaving at Brownie’s OHL/AHL stuff in parts, but I’ve followed Plymouth and Adirondack’s schedules as best as possible, and used Boston’s and their own social network timeline via [this amazing primer](http://littledivinity.livejournal.com/1001117.html#cutid1) for everything else. Some stuff I've moved around for plot's sake, and other stuff I had no idea (like when Segs got dumped by his Playmate girlfriend) so I've just put it where it fits best. Also, Brownie's a left winger now, but he's played at center previously before so I ran with that.
> 
> It veers off into AU once the 2012-2013 season starts, for obvious reasons, and one of my betas informed me that Sean Couturier would probably be Danny's replacement, so I am well aware of that. Also, Brownie really does love Taylor Swift, so it’s completely within the realms of possibility that he tries to use Ol’ Swifty as inspiration for a huge romantic gesture. 
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful betas Evelyn and [vlieger](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vlieger) for hockey picks and the red text highlights of love. Also, thanks to [ellievolia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ellievolia/pseuds/ellievolia) for the inspiration on Twitter. I can't even remember what you said, but this came of it. ;)

 

 

**Plymouth**

Barely a month after he arrives, Seguin is the kid on the team that everyone wants to hang with. He’s funny, has a milf for a mom, and some of the maddest skills anyone has seen. 2008 has been a crappy year for Tyler thus far, who at 19 was hoping to have already been signed to an NHL team, and is instead at Plymouth, wondering whether shit is ever really going to get started for him.

So, Seguin is a 17-year-old kid with a bad haircut and a stupid smile, who’s floundering in the second line while Tyler works his ass off on the first, hoping all the work he puts in this year means the 2009 draft will see him taken to the big dance.

Instead, Coach gets fired and a new guy gets installed, and suddenly Seguin is at center on first line while Tyler’s shoved out to left wing, and he becomes a fucking points machine. It’s disturbing, how moving him up a line can make that much of a change, but his stats don’t lie and the fact that over half his assists are from Tyler doesn’t go unnoticed either.

Coach rooms them together when they go on the road for the first time since Seguin is moved to top line, and Tyler is kind of pissed because the old Coach had guaranteed him his own room this season. He’s a neat freak, and he admits it, and none of his roommates ever lived up to his borderline obsessive _needs_. It probably comes from being the middle child or something; his little brother Cody is a slob, and his older sister was brutal in her organization of everything, including her younger brothers and parents.

 

They’re on the bus on the way from the airport to the hotel, and Tyler’s kind of sulking in his chair next to Rickard, who’s battling someone on his PSP – probably Stefan and Tom, given the way they’re swearing a few seats up and sending furious looks back at them.

“Stop sulking, it looks ugly on your face,” Rickard says idly, while waiting for his character to respawn. Tyler’s face screws up even more, now he’s been called on it, and Rickard rolls his eyes.

“You’re always going around looking bitter, and it’s not attractive,” he continues and Tyler’s about a second away from punching him in the face when Seguin’s face pops up from the seat in front of them, smiling – as always.

“Is your face broken? Like, do you ever stop smiling?” Tyler snarls out, and Rickard coughs, elbowing him hard. Seguin just shrugs.

“Life’s pretty good right now. Why bother being pissy all the time?” he asks and if Tyler didn’t hate this kid for becoming the Next Big Thing Tyler was supposed to be, supposed to _become_ , then he definitely hates him now. Just as he’s about to open his mouth to tell the punk to fuck the hell off, Seguin cuts him off by leaning further over the back of his seat, so he’s basically breathing the same air as Tyler.

“We’re rooming together. I’m excited. You seem kind of stuck up your own ass but I think I can fix that,” he says, and Rickard bursts into laughter while Seguin’s grin gets wider and he sits back down, leaving Tyler spluttering.

 

 

As expected, Seguin is the worst motherfucker to room with. Having his mom baby the hell out of him as the eldest of three, but the only boy, Seguin doesn’t know how to do _anything_. He can make his bed and that’s about it. He can’t cook, he certainly can’t clean or do washing, and it takes Tyler an hour just to get their room back into a semi-decent state before they ship out so they aren’t charged for trashing the fucking thing.

This goes on for a _year._ A fucking _year_.

But –

Seguin stops being Seguin and starts being Segs, stops being ‘that punk kid’ and starts being his… well, his best friend. It takes a month before Segs gets Tyler to laugh at his first joke, and a week after that before he convinces Tyler to come to Brampton during the summer.

 

(The week in Brampton stretches to most of Tyler’s summer, and between training and hanging out with Segs’ friends and tearing shit up in his city, he can’t remember the last time he’s had _this much fun_. Segs’ mom is amazing, all the hype is definitely worth it, and he leaves calling her Momma Seguin.)

 

The fact that he gets pushed to center the second line, while Tyler keeps scoring and scoring and _scoring_ , the hype crazy around him in some faceoff with a guy from Windsor for the number one draft spot, doesn’t even bother him that much anymore – because it’s _Segs_.

He’s resigned to the fact he’s going to go low in the second or third round of drafts this season or next, and that compared to guys like Segs he’s just not – well. All the shinny they play, all the street hockey during the summers, Segs always insisted on being on his team, and he wonders if its because he knows that if he went against Tyler, it might mess up the friendship that’s sprung up between them because he’s just _that much better_.

The thing is, between accepting his likely fate and letting himself be drenched in Segs, letting the younger boy incorporate himself into every little part of his life, he’s fallen for him. How hard doesn’t matter; what matters is the grin he found so irritating is now so endearing, he does whatever he can to force it to Segs’ face. Smiles don’t come easy to Tyler, but they do to Segs, and he wants to keep it that way.

 

What matters is the smell of his shitty teenage cologne is like, the _greatest thing ever_ , and he’ll almost fight the other guys just so he can be the one to sit next to Segs just to smell him, _feel_ him. He gets chirped maliciously for it, but he manages to keep his shit together long enough to say it’s because Segs is his wife and he’s gotta protect his virtue or something; Segs just throws his head back and laughs.

 What matters is his inability to cook, clean and generally take care of himself makes Tyler _want to_ – do what, he doesn’t know. Do everything.

 (When Segs turns 18, Tyler buys him a necklace, driven almost mad by the idea of having something he’s picked out lying so intimately against him. Segs lights up when he opens the package while Tyler stammers something out, and Segs hands the necklace wordlessly to Tyler and makes him put it on.

 “Thanks man,” Segs whispers and hugs him tight, and Tyler squeezes his eyes shut and just holds on for as long as he can.)

 

What matters is when Segs is drafted number two to Boston while Tyler sits at home watching on his laptop, is that he has to hug his pillow so tightly to his body, and coach himself through the feeling in his chest, like he’s going to explode with rage or sadness or just – knowing that Segs won’t be around anymore. 

“You need to get over this shit, you stupid motherfucker,” Tyler gasps out when he can stand it, as if it’s going to make any difference. Segs texts him hours later, a keyboard mash of letters and numbers Tyler knows is supposed to portray his complete fucking crazy life.

_Boston sux, but congrats neway xo_

Segs calls him almost immediately after he sends it, but he lets it go to voicemail. He’s wrecked right now, and Segs will know if he hears him.

It’s for the best.

 

 

 

**Stone Harbor, New Jersey**

Tyler’s in California in an Irish pub with his bros when Boston wins the Stanley Cup. He’s knee deep in Guinness and shots of a bright pink variety when it’s done, and he’d be lying if his first thought wasn’t “If I was there right now, I’d be giving Segs a blowie on the ice.”

Luckily, nobody can read his mind and he’s fucked up but he’s not _there_ just yet. Emotional declarations of love are at least another few pints away.

 

“Hey, isn’t Seguin-” Livy says, and Tyler’s elbow becomes acquainted with his chest before the sentence is finished, accompanied with a glare and they turn back to the huge plasma on the wall. They watch the guys spill onto the ice and manpile _everywhere_. It’s such a disgusting fucking mess, playoff beards and missing teeth, and Tyler knows the smell would be almost overwhelming, sweat and skin and plastic and ice and blood. He wants to be there more than anything.

Blacker, a friend Segs picked up from somewhere along the line, is also with him; Owen Attack won the season in the OHL and he’s been in a perpetual state of drunkenness since. He justifies it saying he “deserves it” – he’s spending next season with the Marlies in Toronto on a slide, and although his paycheck hasn’t increased much, it’s a farm team and the Leafs are calling his name, apparently.  

Tyler’s a free agent and has no fucking idea what he’s going to do, so he’s pointedly not thinking about it. Maybe it’ll go away.

 

So, three hours later Tyler’s slumped in their booth while Blacker and the others are at the bar and hitting on girls drunker than they are, when his phone starts to vibrate on the table. Segs’ face flashes up on the screen, and Tyler lifts his eyes to look at the plasma. The talking heads are on, and Segs’ face is there as well, while they discuss the rookie and how fucking amazing he is. Whatever, Tyler knows it all off by heart anyway.

He’s been acting like kind of a dick towards Segs in an attempt to squash his stupid feelings, and it’s not doing anything except make Segs call and Facebook him more, Tweeting him more constantly than usual, and if everyone didn’t think he was gay before (he hasn’t had a girlfriend since before he signed to Plymouth) they definitely do now.

“H’lo?” Tyler rasps out over the sounds of the bar, half celebrating with Boston jerseys on and half commiserating into their drinks. Tyler can hear the beat of a club in the background, and tries to focus.

“BROWNIE!” Segs yells down the phone, laughing, and Tyler rolls his eyes.

“Are you drunk already?” he asks and Segs just keeps laughing, so that’s a yes.

“Man, you didn’t… why aren’t you _here_?” Segs whines a few moments later, and Tyler barely has a second before that constricting feeling is back in his chest again, squeezing tighter than ever.

“Because… I’m in Cali, man. We, I already said this.”

Segs sighs loudly and someone starts shouting down the phone, and Tyler listens as Segs struggles to throw him off and swears, apologizing as best he can.

“We’re going to some club… I dunno. I just like, I wanna hang out with _you_ right now. Like, you and Blacker and shit,” he mumbles and Tyler squeezes his eyes shut and rubs his face.

“Go celebrate with your team, Tyler,” is all he can bring himself to say, and Segs is silent for a beat.

“Okay, Brownie. Sorry to bother you,” he says and hangs up, and Brownie’s left staring at his phone wondering – _what_.

 

He stays in California for the rest of the week, ignoring the looks on Blacker’s face. He knows Segs is texting him, knows he’s probably telling him how weird and distant Tyler’s been acting lately, but Blacker isn’t the type to come out and call him out on anything, so Tyler knows he’s safe for a while. Segs had broken up with his Playmate girlfriend a while ago, and Tyler feels better than he has in a long time (he _definitely_ doesn’t eat his way through a whole pint of B &Js the night Tyler tells him he’s shacked up with her, or pretty much every night after that until they broke up) but that just reinforces how fucking pathetic he is, and how he’s not dealing with this ‘getting over’ Segs at all.

After California comes an impromptu trip to Vegas with some friends who come down from Wasaga Beach, and he thumps Blacker on the back as he packs up his stuff, choosing to take the Greyhound instead of go through the pointless hassle of a plane for such a short journey. He’d probably drive if renting a car wasn’t a huge fucking hassle either. Being under 25 in this country is exhausting.

 

“I thought you were going to Jersey with Segs,” Blacker says as he shoves the last of his things into his bag. It’s only them, the others having disappeared long ago to go find somewhere to eat, and Tyler shrugs jerkily and checks his pockets for his wallet and phone once more.

“He’s not there yet, and I’ve got a while to kill. Summer’s a long time.”

“Actually, he’s been in Jersey for three days already. He just hasn’t bothered texting you because he knows you won’t reply. What the fuck’s your problem, Tyler?” Blacker spits out, and Tyler sighs. He’d been banking on Blacker’s supreme dislike for emotional confrontation to be enough to prolong this conversation, but apparently even _he’s_ reached his limit.

“I don’t _have_ a problem, I just don’t see the need to text him all the fucking time, alright?” Tyler shoots back, fussing with his bags for something to do. Blacker stands up and shoves him away from them, and Tyler shoves back. He’s not in the fucking mood.

“Yeah, you do have a problem. Tyler says you’ve been weird ever since he got drafted to Boston. You started missing Skypes, screening his phone calls, ignoring his texts… it’s bullshit. If you’ve got some sort of jealousy shit because he got drafted before you, you need to put that shit aside. He doesn’t deserve to be punished for something that’s not his fault.”

Blacker’s completely right, and it’s not like he doesn’t know it. Tyler sags against the wall and inhales. He’s still – he doesn’t Facebook much, bar being tagged in party pics and chirping at Segs and the others sometimes; the relationship status they’d changed just before the draft so they were in “Relationships” with each other hurt too much to see.

“You wanna know why, Jess?” he asks, staring at the ceiling. Blacker snorts, and Tyler closes his eyes.

“I’m in love with Tyler, and this is my… my attempt at getting over it.”

 

He’s silent for so long that Tyler opens his eyes and looks down, and Jesse just looks _pissed_. “You’re such a fucking dickhead, Brownie!” he snarls and Tyler just feels confused.

“Go to Jersey already and tell Segs this shit. Like, seriously. You are such a fucking dickhead.”  Tyler blinks, and Blacker shoves at him again, so he goes stumbling towards his bags.

He stops at the door and looks over his shoulder, the heat gone from his face and replaced with something else Tyler can’t pick. “I’m serious. Tell Segs and work your shit out. If you don’t tell him, I will.”

With that, he disappears and leaves Tyler alone in his hotel room.

 

 

It takes Tyler until the end of June to get to Jersey, and he texts Segs the night before he organises to fly there that he’s coming from Vegas, and that he’ll be at the house in the evening.

_ok_

is all he gets back, and he sets his mouth. Segs is pissed, and by every right so, and he needs to approach this carefully if he doesn’t want to destroy everything. So, he picks up a bottle of Jameson in the airport, the most expensive and biggest he can, and exists to the taxi rank with a determined look on his face. He’s still got no idea what he’s going to say when he pulls up at the condo, and fishes the keys out his pocket.

The house is silent, and Tyler prays Segs is sleeping or at the gym or something, so he has more time to prepare, and tries to creep through the hallway and past the kitchen and living room towards the stairs when he spots Segs sitting on the couch, legs crossed beneath him, looking unhappy.

 

“Sneaking in like you’re past curfew now?” Segs asks, and Tyler sighs and stands up. He hands the Jameson to Segs, who raises an eyebrow.

“Congratulations for winning the Stanley, man. You deserve it a thousand percent, and I’m sorry I couldn’t be in Vancouver to celebrate with you… so have some super expensive booze as an apology,” he says and musters up a smile, but Segs just stares at it before he turns his gaze on Tyler.

“I don’t want the alcohol. I wanted _you_ there for the biggest night of my fucking life. God, even your mom and dad came. They said your ‘trip’ to Cali that you had organised apparently ‘months’ ago was super last minute, and they didn’t even know you weren’t coming with them to Vancouver until the night before.”

Tyler makes a note to call up his mom and bitch her out as soon as he’s out of Segs’ hearing range, but for now he’s got a super pissed best friend to deal with and he’s running out of lies.

“Lemme just put my bag upstairs,” is all he says, and he puts the alcohol down on the kitchen counter and drags his suitcase upstairs, trying to calm himself down enough to go back down. It doesn’t work, and instead he sits on the edge of his bed and proceeds to freak the fuck out – so much so he doesn’t even notice Segs coming upstairs to stand at his doorway, before moving in to stand in front of him.

“What’s going on, Tyler?” Segs asks, resuming his pose on the hardwood floors. Tyler sighs and wonders if this is the moment it all ends.

“I’m a free agent and nobody wants me, Segs. I’ve fucked up with you, with my job, with everything that matters and I just – I miss you so much, man. It sucks so hard you’re not with me anymore.” Tyler can count on one hand how many times he and Segs have had deep and meaningfuls, and he really doesn’t want this to be their last.

“Come on, Brownie… you’re crazy good, its just taking the teams longer to notice. You’ll get drafted, I promise.”

“How can you even promise that, Segs? You’ve got absolutely no control over anything!” he exclaims, leaning back.

“Because I know _you_ , and I know you’re good enough. You’ll sign somewhere. Anywhere would be lucky to have you, and you’ll go. You’ve _got_ to.”

 

Tyler huffs out a broken laugh, and Segs frowns and stands up, sits next to Brownie, so close they’re pressed together almost completely. He slings an arm around him and pulls him close, so close his face is smushed against Segs’ neck and he just _inhales_ and it’s like, world shaking or something. It ends him, ends any pretense he ever had at being able to get over Segs right then and there, because he’s _never_ getting over Segs. He is the fucking love of his life, and yet Tyler will never have him. He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice Segs has started talking again, softly at first but gaining strength.

“… and so I said, he can’t want this like I do, y’know? To Blacker. But uh, he said that maybe like… you might have something different to say?”

Tyler pulls back, blinking, and stares at Segs’ face. He looks fucking exhausted, and scared, and Tyler doesn’t know what he’s asking, or what Segs wants.

 

“What?” he says, and Segs bites at his lip. Tyler can’t help himself, his eyes are drawn to his white teeth pulling at it, dragging at it, before his tongue darts out and swipes along it. By the time he looks back at up at Segs, Segs is smiling.

“That,” he says and leans forward to close the distance. Tyler melts into him, melts completely as Segs knocks his cap off his head and pushes him back onto the bed, hands roving everywhere before settling on Tyler’s face, angling him to kiss deeper and harder.

 

They don’t even _do_ anything, just make out until their mouths are too sore for anything else, Tyler’s hands making a home in the dips of Segs’ back and hips, and Segs wrestling his leg to rest between Tyler’s, heavy and solid. He knows Segs is packing a solid rig under his shirt and wants it all, wants to touch and lick and bite his way up and down it, but he’s exhausted and they pass out.

 

 

At 6.30 the next morning, his phone starts ringing in his pocket and he manages to get it to his face before it ends, blinking in the low sunlight creeping through the window.

Segs is stirring next to him, his face pressed into Tyler’s neck, an arm and leg thrown over his body, and Tyler’s arm is dead from where Segs has been lying over it all night. He pulls it out and sits up, answering and rubbing his face.

“Hello?” he says, groggy. Segs moans from next to him, curls around his body and into the warm dent Tyler left behind, his fingers creeping up the back of Tyler’s shirt. Tyler can’t get the stupid smile off his face, and he watches as Segs blinks slowly, rubbing his eye with a fist before looking at him.

“Tyler, you there?” his dad says down the line, and Tyler nods.

“Yeah Pops, I’m here. What’s up? It’s like, 6.30 in the morning…” he says, stifling a yawn. What comes next almost makes – well. He chokes on nothing, and makes his dad repeat himself twice.

“What?” Segs asks, his fingers now tucked under Tyler’s thigh, and Tyler shakes his head and tells his dad he’ll ring him back.

“The Flyers… they offered me a contract. Three years, entry level. I can’t – I don’t,” he’s at a loss to find the words to explain, and he can’t feel anything, he’s numb and Segs sits up, that grin from when he was 17 and new back in full force, shining and in front of him to touch, to _feel_.

“And you’re gonna take it, of course…” Segs says, cracking his back and standing up in front of him, handing Tyler’s phone back to him. Tyler nods dumbly, and Segs finds his dad’s number in his contacts and presses ring, holding it to Tyler’s face on speaker.

“Pops?” he says, as his father answers.

“Kiddo? Everything okay?” he asks and Tyler huffs out a laugh, as he reaches toward Segs, wrapping his hand around his wrist.

“Yeah, Pops. Everything’s awesome. I’ll – I’ll sign, of course. Uhm, I’m in Jersey with Tyler right now, but I’ll get on the first flight and come up there, okay?”

His father chuckles.

“I can courier it down to you, so you don’t leave Tyler alone. Or… he can come up, if he wants? Your mother misses that boy something silly. You don’t talk about him much anymore – is everything okay?” his father asks, and Tyler flushes bright red and looks down at his lap.

“I uh, I had some shit to deal with but it’s sorted out. He’s happy right now, ‘cos of the whole Stanley thing. I’ll ask him if he wants to come and text you guys my flight details later, alright?” he says and his father agrees, and they hang up.

“Your mom misses me ‘something silly’?” Segs asks, grinning and throwing the phone onto the bed, before using his knees to give him leverage to push Tyler back down on the bed, so Segs can straddle him.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“And what about you?” Segs asks lowly, leaning over and pulling his shirt off, bending in to suck at Tyler’s collarbone.

“Me too. A- a _lot_.”

 

Tyler told himself, he _told himself_ just before he was falling asleep that he wouldn’t let Segs know just how much he loves him until they’d been together a while, until it was kind of expected to crack out the huge declarations of love and shit. But the way Segs is looking at him, the way Segs is holding him and kissing him, _touching him_ like he’s so fragile he’s gonna break, like it’s already written all over his face.

He could probably die happy right now, is the last thought he has for a long time.

 

 

**Boston**

His first year signed to Philadelphia isn’t exactly how he pictures it. He gets called up sometimes, got called up during the playoffs and everything, but there’s no real ice time to speak of, and he does all his work down at their farm team, Adirondack.

But, he’s a new guy who looks on the ‘bright side’, taking a leaf from the book of others, so he’s focusing on the positives. His yearly salary is nice enough, and he gets a wicked signing bonus that he sinks some of into his first proper car (Range Rover, _duh_ ) and there’s a lot more money hidden away for player bonuses that he plans on cashing in _all_ of. Life’s good.

He wears the Flyers logo most of the time, has a bunch of Phantoms gear that he sends out to his family and friends, and his billet family is super nice and they have four kids that he helps babysit constantly (the house is full of sound and laughter, and there’s always something cooking; he has to hit the gym twice as hard to balance it all out) – and then there’s Segs.

 

Segs, who wants to buy a summer place with him in Toronto.

“You want to _what_?” Tyler asks over Skype, while he’s searching around for his beanie. He lives in the guest house, and the heating is on the fritz so it only works like, 30% of the time lately so he crashes inside when it gets too cold, or he rugs up and cranks the portable heater he bought last week. They’ve had the repairmen over three times already to try and fix it, but everyone’s stumped and Tyler’s really hoping he doesn’t catch pneumonia.

Valentine’s Day is next week – maybe this is some sort of grand gesture? They’re kind of super obvious on Facebook and shit, and Tyler’s still calling Segs his wife all over Twitter, so he figures it fits into their pattern of behaviour.

He finds the beanie and folds the flaps down, pulling on another hoodie and climbing into bed. The heater is basically _in_ the bed with him; he’s got it blowing up one side of the duvet so it’s like a fucking womb in his bed and he barely leaves it most days. Segs keeps making unhappy noises, even though Tyler tells him it’s _fine_ and things are getting _fixed_ , but whatever. Segs mothers him something stupid, even though the kid can barely take care of himself and the cleaning lady has to come twice times a week just to deal with his slobby ass self.

“I said, I wanna buy a summer place in Toronto. My agent says it’s a good investment, property is in a good place right now – and you’ve been talking about having somewhere for a while now, so I figure… why not?”

 

Segs isn’t looking at the screen, instead playing with his covers, and Tyler raises an eyebrow. He had hoped that this would descend into him getting to watch Segs get naked and jerk off, instead of having like, life changing conversations while he’s trying to avoid frostbite.

“Uhm, so. _What_?” Tyler tries again, and Segs glares.

“You’re not even fucking listening to me, are you?” he bitches and Tyler rolls his eyes.

“I’m listening, I’m just fucking confused. You want us to buy a house toge-”

“Not a _house,_ an apartment or something. Maybe an apartment in a high rise, but _not_ a house,” Segs cuts him off, and Tyler snorts – yeah, because the type of property is going to change the meaning so much.

“Tyler, I don’t earn the kind of money you do. You’re on like, six times what I’m taking home, man…” he says slowly, embarrassed.

 

It’s not like he doesn’t know what Segs is earning; he’d caught a glimpse at a paycheck Segs had left on his counter last time he was up in Boston, and then there was Capgeek – his cousin Tash sent him a link to Segs’ page not long after the Stanley Cup shit. He pretty much dies when he sees how many zeros Segs is taking home a year, just as his starting salary. Segs signs a six-year deal with the Bruins as well, and while it isn’t due to kick in until the 2013-2014 season, they’re still giving him mad bonuses. The fact they won the Stanley means he got everything – all $2.65 million of the player bonus, on top of everything else. Segs is definitely his sugar daddy.

 

“Can you front twenty?” he asks, and Tyler sinks down deeper into his pile of duvets and does some quick calculations. He’s still in his first season of his Flyers deal, and although the season is almost over, he’s probably only managed to save about forty with his signing bonus – even with the billet housing and the team paying for basically everything. He flies up to Boston a lot to see Segs, whenever he isn’t on the road or playing himself, and his car eats up mad gas and the insurance is stupid expensive because he’s under 25. He’s planning on selling the stupid fucking thing and buying a Hybrid.

“Uhm, maybe. I’ve tied some up in stocks and shit, and got more tucked away in a high interest account… I have to speak to my dad, see what he says, but yeah I think I can get twenty together pretty easily. Maybe even thirty?” he hazards, and Segs looks pleased.

“I know we said we’d go back to Jersey this summer, but I’m thinking house hunting in Toronto for at least a week first?” he says, and Tyler nods. Then Segs gets naked and Skype takes a turn for the excitable, and when he’s finished and Segs signs off with a lazy wave, Tyler wonders what the fuck just happened.

He reaches for his phone and texts Blacker, asks him if buying a house together means they’re like, married or some shit. Blacker texts back seconds later with _AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA yes now fuck off_ and Tyler frowns, but lobs his phone to the end of his bed and turns off the light. Orgasms always make him tired.

 

He almost doesn’t get Segs anything for Valentine’s Day – figures they’re dudes, and dudes only do Valentine’s Day shit for the girls benefit, and since there’s a distinct lack of the vag in their relationship, there’s no need. Except… he kind of _wants_ to?

Segs wants to buy a _house_ (correction: apartment in a high rise) together, and that’s kind of a huge deal, even if he doesn’t think so. Plus he regularly gets naked on screen for Tyler, which also has to be worth something.

Ben and Blake are the only dudes on the team who know he’s banging Segs, and if Segs knew they knew he’d be dead, but Tyler _had_ to tell someone and they’d been around when he was drunk and vulnerable, so they were it. Besides, Blake’s a Kessel and they’re docile as fuck (off the ice) and Ben’s too old to be homophobic (how that even works Tyler doesn’t know, but it’s what Ben said so he’s just shrugged it off at the time).

“What do I get Segs for Valentine’s Day?” he hisses at Blake next time they have practice, while they’re as alone as they’re going to get. Blake pushes his helmet up, wincing.

“What?” he yells, and Tyler punches him as hard as he can and repeats himself, getting as close as he dares. Blake goes pink, and pushes his visor back down.

“I don’t fucking know, do what everyone else does and go standard,” he snaps and Tyler pushes his helmet back up.

“Yeah, because sending red roses and some expensive chocolate to him at training is gonna go down a _treat_. He’s not a lady. Think of him as a super dirty-” Tyler means dirty in the context of slovenly, not sexy dirty (although there was that _one time_ -) but Blake assumes the latter and shoves him so hard he falls over and skates away.

 

Tyler sits on the ice until Coach yells at him, and he gets up and goes through his drills, catching Ben at the end.

“Blake said I’m supposed to avoid you, you want to tell us perverted things about Seguin,” Ben says mildly, watching out over the team. Tyler scoffs.

“I’m hardly gonna brag about my… _partner’s_ skills in the sack, am I?” he hisses and Ben shrugs.

“You were stupid enough to tell us who your _partner_ is, so I guess it’s not that far from the realm of possible?” he shoots back and Tyler socks him in the arm.

“You found me when I was drunk and horny, it’s not my fault it came out!”

They squabble for a while longer, before Tyler gives up.

 

“Look, I just… I wanna get him something special, okay? Our relationship started kind of fucked up, and he puts up with a lot for me.”

“I feel like this’d make sense coming from him, considering he’s the one playing in the NHL and you’re the one stuck in the farm team,” Ben says and Tyler shuts his mouth, stung.

“I don’t know what to get him, Tyler. He’s a fucking multi-millionaire and he’s not even legal to drink in this country. Get him a skywriter, get him a bunch of vouchers you’ve handmade, get him photos of you guys doing stupid shit together – go visit him! Just… do something from the heart. He’ll appreciate it more. I know I would,” Ben says softly, clapping a hand on his arm and skating away to start packing up all the pucks on the ice.

 

 

Tyler feels wrong all afternoon, and he looks at their schedule to distract himself from the nagging feeling inside. They’ve got games on the 11th, the 14th and then the 17th. He can probably fly up on the 12th and stay for a night or two, maybe. Segs’ schedule is similar, and he’s in Boston so they’re home games. He’d like to see them play the Rangers on the 14th – it just sucks he’s supposed to be playing at the same time.

He lies on his bed and listens to Taylor Swift for a while, hoping for inspiration to strike. Instead he just gets super depressed, listening to her sing sad duets about missing lovers and things changing.

 

The next day at training, Ben collects him into the boards and he feels something snap, and he goes down like a sack of potatoes, clutching at his chest. Once he has an x-ray, the doctors tell him he’s fractured his collarbone, and is probably out for at least two to three weeks. Coach looks pissed and Ben looks contrite when they’re told, and between the haze of pain meds all Tyler can think is, _at least_ _now I’m free for Valentine’s Day!_ It’s the wrong way to be taking this injury, to be taking any injury, but it’s true.

He texts Segs and tells him he fractured his collarbone in training, but doesn’t say much else, and Segs calls him that night and makes Tyler Skype him, just to ensure he’s ‘okay’.

“See, look. I just have a sling, it’s all good…” Tyler trails off, pointing at his arm. His whole chest hurts, and if he does make it to Boston the most vigorous present Segs is getting will be if Tyler can manage a blowjob; if Segs holds still and he gets down on his knees or something. He flexes his neck experimentally and pain shoots down his chest, and he groans and winces.

“Should you be in hospital?” Segs asks and Tyler laughs.

“It’s a collarbone, they can’t do anything. I’ve got painkillers and they said it’ll stop hurting in a week, so stop worrying.”

 

 

He gets a letter from the club doctor giving him permission to fly, once he promises he won’t jostle anything and will visit an orthopedist once he arrives in Boston, and he flies on the 13th, wondering how much Segs is going to freak the hell out when he arrives...

He’s been texting Bergeron for the past few days, needing an inside man, and he tells Patrice he’s getting off the plane, the hostesses depositing him into a wheelchair despite his protests, and wheeling him to the front desk.

_Im here man, make sure Segs is home?_

Patrice is a cool guy, and he’s pretty sure he knows their friendship isn’t exactly a friendship anymore, but he’s never said anything so Tyler doesn’t feel the need to freak or anything.

_Yeah he went home early 2nite… u know where his spare key is?_

Tyler has a spare, and then he’s getting out the cab at Tyler’s apartment building and heads inside. The doorman knows him well enough and asks if he wants to buzz up, but Tyler shakes his head – his visit is a surprise, and the doorman winks and lets him pass.

He wheels his bag into the elevator and rocks back and forth on the way up to the 45th floor, nerves starting to eat at his stomach. Maybe this is overkill, maybe Segs won’t want him there, distracting him before the Rangers game…

Before he can change his mind, the doors ding and he steps out onto Segs’ landing, heads towards his door and pulls the spare key out his pocket. Even though they live in different states, they gave each other keys to everything really early on, just after Segs signed to Boston and found his apartment. It didn’t mean anything at the time, but he’s super grateful it happened now.

He’s wearing his Adirondack hoodie and sweatpants, a ridiculous hat on his head with the flaps down, strings hanging down his chest and figures he could’ve come looking a little less conspicuous, a little less _stupid_ , but his team gear is the easiest stuff he can get in and out of, and he guesses Segs won’t mind so much.

 

He gets inside quietly enough, and can hear the television going in Segs’ bedroom down the hall, so he shuts the door and puts down his bag, tiptoeing as silently as he can. He hears Segs get up, muttering to himself and heads into his ensuite – Tyler waits for the door to shut before he sprints into the room and turns on a few lamps, and eases himself down onto the bed, onto his good shoulder and breaths in deeply.

It’s warm and ridiculously comfortable, and he rolls onto his back and turns his head to face Segs’ door. The toilet flushes and he hears Segs yawn loudly, before wandering out, scratching low on his belly, before he stops in his tracks, eyes widening comically.

“W…” Segs says, at a loss, and Tyler hauls himself up, only wincing slightly (the painkillers are all kinds of amazing), and smiles as widely as he can at his… his _boyfriend_.

“Happy early Valentine’s Day?” he tries, and Segs huffs out a laugh and walks over to stand between Tyler’s legs.

“You’re so stupid,” he mumbles, leaning forward to kiss him. Tyler lifts his good arm and gathers Segs into his lap, and Segs rests his hand on Tyler’s neck, the other wrapping tight around his ribs, and they don’t move for a while, just kissing as much as they can.

“I didn’t know what else to get you… I was kind of panicking, and then I got injured so it kind of, I dunno. Got sorted out for me?” he says, and Segs shakes his head.

“You could’ve just bought me a jumbo Nutella and Skyped me, man. You didn’t need to fly here, risk hurting yourself more…” Segs says, squeezing his thighs against Tyler’s, and Tyler shrugs.

“I wanna be here… and I kind of really wanna see you guys play the Rangers tomorrow night, so there might be an ulterior motive?” Segs rolls his eyes.

“You can go in the box with the families. I’m not having a fan jostle you in the crowd and fuck you up even more,” Segs says, sliding off him and crawling under the covers, holding them up so Tyler can join him. He pops another painkiller and eases himself out his hoodie and hat, his tracksuit pants following soon after, and takes off the sling and heads back out to get his special pillow. It’s shaped in a giant U and works like a fucking charm, although cuddle opportunities are severely limited. 

  
When he comes back up with the pillow, Segs bursts into laughter and Tyler glares as he slides into bed, adjusting himself around it.

“Dude, that looks like one of those pregnancy pillows!” he exclaims and Tyler is hating on him so fucking hard right now.

“Your face is a pregnancy pillow. No Valentine’s Day nookie for you,” he sniffs and Segs only laughs harder.

“I wasn’t getting any anyway, you’re too busted up.”

“I was gonna get down on my knees and give you the best blowjob ever, but fuck you now,” he snaps and Segs stops laughing almost immediately.

“I take it all back!” he yelps and Tyler rolls his eyes, and watches as Segs turns off the TV and lamps, moves closer so their legs are pressed together and finds his hand in the darkness.

“Even though you’re too broke to fuck, I’m really glad you’re here. It’s an awesome present,” Segs whispers and Tyler shrugs and regrets it instantly, biting down on his lip to prevent from moaning.

“You okay?” Segs asks, and Tyler nods slowly.

“Yeah, just shrugging isn’t so good right now,” he wheezes out, and Segs makes a noise and runs his hand along Tyler’s arm.

“Such a stupid injury, in a shitty place…” he says and Tyler sighs and closes his eyes. Segs is on his good side, so he won’t smash into his collarbone in the middle of the night, and he feels his breath completely catch in his throat when Segs leans in, his nose brushing against Tyler’s cheek and says, “I love you.”

 

Just like that. _Just like that._

 

He lifts his good arm, shaking slightly, and Segs snuggles closer and Tyler feels his breathing, steady and sure against his side, and wonders if now he’s supposed to – can he even –

“Thanks,” is all he manages to say, and winces, but Segs chuckles and moves closer anyway.

 

It takes a long fucking time for Tyler to fall asleep.

 

 

**Toronto**

The season ends for the Phantoms early in April; they’re not making the playoffs and Tyler’s looking down a longer summer than usual. He figures they’ll have a while off to holiday together somewhere, and then go to summer camp in Toronto, like they usually do. On Garbage Day he hums and smiles his way through cleaning out his locker and saying goodbye to his teammates, wondering if next season is the season he gets called up, gets to put on the Flying P and score goals against the likes of Lundqvist and Thomas. 

After the Valentine’s Day Situation (fully capitalised in his mind), things haven’t been weird between them or anything; Segs had said he loved Tyler, and Tyler had said _thanks_ of all things – which is completely unnecessary, since he’s basically loved Segs for like, almost four years now – but he was caught so off balance, completely surprised, he didn’t know what else to do.

So, Segs has the big L word hanging out there, and Tyler’s floundering like a douche, making things awkward like he tends to do.

 

He heads down to Jersey and meets up with some of their friends, watching each game that Boston play before they’re knocked out, and both he and Blacker look at each other with the same expression. When Segs calls him an hour later, Tyler’s waiting.

“Hey, you alright?” he asks, wincing. Of course the dude isn’t okay, what a stupid fucking question. “Scratch that. Uhm, yeah. Hi,” he stammers out and Segs huffs a laugh.

“I’m fine. Shitty, but fine. Wish you were here,” he says in a low voice, and Tyler bites his lip.

“The Shore sucks without you,” he says in the same tone, and Segs sighs loudly.

“I’m stuck in Boston for a few more days, and then we’re good to go. I don’t feel like the Shore this year though… come up to Toronto?” he asks, and Tyler nods.

 

So, he flies to Toronto a few days later, leaving their rental in the (somewhat) capable hands of Blacker and their other friends, and Segs greets him with a striped shirt and sunglasses, and a huge smile on his face. They embrace tightly in a sea of people bustling around them and Tyler risks a kiss as close as he dares, edging on the corner of his lips, pressing hard and needy up against Segs. Segs chuckles and pulls away, dragging him towards baggage claims.

They go for lunch and sit outside, basking in the ridiculously wonderful sunlight that basically warms Tyler to his soul, and he watches Segs eat his steak and salad, getting caught so often he gives up pretending not to.

“You remember how you asked about buying a house together?” he says, and Segs rolls his eyes, ready to correct him, but Tyler keeps going.

“I wanna do it. I’ve got the money, let’s do it. Let’s buy a place together. Here, wherever.”

Segs looks flushed, pleased and eager, and they finish dinner and barely make it inside their hotel room before Segs is on him like a dying man and Tyler’s the oasis in the desert, or something equally as corny.

 

“Fuck, _yes_ ,” Segs moans out when Tyler gets his mouth on his dick, and then it’s not long before he’s arching his body, caramel and lean and muscled planes everywhere that Tyler drags his fingernails along, Segs coming _hard_ in Tyler’s mouth and gasping out a bunch of nothingness into the room.

Segs makes Tyler straddle his face and lets him fuck his mouth, until he’s _there_ and he pulls out groaning, ropes of thick white lacing across the planes of Segs’ face. God, he just came on the guy’s _face_ and he still can’t –

He cleans Segs up and flops down next to him, nosing against his jaw, and figures _fuck it._

“I, uh… I love you too, Segs.”

“You love the orgasm you just had, you mean,” Segs jokes and Tyler shakes his head and pulls up.

“No, I love _you_. I’ve loved you for a long time. I just uh, I wasn’t expecting to hear it from your mouth so - so soon...” he says, kind of fierce and embarrassed and proud, all rolled into one.

Segs raises an eyebrow.

“I dunno, it’s stupid and I’m sorry it’s taken me so long,” he says in a rush, and Segs smiles fondly at him.

“We haven’t exactly moved like, in a normal way in this relationship…” Segs says and Tyler shrugs.

“I’d rather move in a weird way with you than anything else,” Tyler says and Segs laughs and shoves him over to straddle him.

“Round two is definitely happening right now,” he says and ducks down.

 

 

They buy the second place the realtor shows them in late May, a two-story apartment thing in the CN Tower that overlooks half of Toronto and has a kickass balcony. Segs is drooling over the view while Tyler deals with the paperwork, and then they get their agents involved to take care of escrow and all the other shit neither of them care about. The buying price is over a million dollars, and Tyler feels himself wilt when he looks at the cost, but Segs bustles through and takes over, glaring at him as if to prevent any possibly stupidity on Tyler’s part. He feels like shit for the rest of the afternoon, so they go for a walk and wander past a pet shop.

In the doorway, a bunch of Labrador puppies are playing in their little window, barking and yelping and tumbling around, and Tyler bends down and taps the glass. There’s a brown one in the back, looking shy, and Tyler can’t stop staring.

“What?” Segs asks from somewhere near his ear, and Tyler points at the little brown one.

“He’s shy. I want to see him,” Tyler says, and Segs snorts but they walk inside. The second the pet shop lady puts the little brown lab into his arms, Tyler’s gone and it’s so obvious.

“How much?” he croaks as the puppy noses under the sleeve of his shirt, pressing his wet nose against his rib and yelping.

“$850… he’s a purebred and fully vaccinated and desexed,” the woman says, as if that’s supposed to explain the cost, but Tyler fumbles for his wallet and thrusts it at Segs anyway.

“Pay her,” he says, not tearing his eyes from the dog, and that’s how Marshall comes into their lives.

 

 

It takes almost two weeks before they can move into their apartment, and they spend another week on top of that shopping for couches and beds, and lock Marshall in the downstairs bathroom while they christen the living room and kitchen. Tyler’s never gonna be able to grill in there – it’ll mean staring at the fridge, stainless steel and a remnant of how long it took to get Segs’ fingerprints off, and everything that happened before.

Then Segs tells him Boston want to come and do some shitty Cribs thing at the place, so they invite Blacker to make it look less like a love pad and more like a bachelor pad, and Tyler hangs awkwardly in the background while Segs walks the camera crew (re: one bored-looking guy and one scarily efficient woman from the PR department) around the place. Their fridge is way too empty for anything awesome.

They tell Segs to cook something, and Blacker passes out again on the couch so it’s just him and Segs eating at the counter, trying to edit their stories to include Blacker in them, but they seem to buy it and Tyler breaths out a sigh of relief when they leave an hour later.

“That was awkward as fuck,” he says and Segs shrugs.

“Not as awkward as telling them they couldn’t see the second bedroom,” he grumbles, flopping down on the sectional next to Tyler and being immediately jumped on by Marshall.

 

Truth be told, they hadn’t even set up the room at all; Blacker slept on the couch and Tyler’s obviously in the master with Segs, so there had been no point. Maybe a little more _point_ now, though. Also, Tyler’s beginning to realize the horrible memories he has of their time in Plymouth, of Segs’ horrible home habits weren’t an exaggeration of his memory. It took him almost _three hours_ to clean before the PR people came over, and he’s pretty sure he ripped something in his stomach trying not to vomit when he found stale pizza lodged down the back of the couch. If this like, co-dependent living situation is going to continue, Tyler’s definitely laying down some house rules.

 

 

Blacker goes home a day later, stating their “loved up bullshit” is making him want to vomit all the time, and he needs a break before camp starts. Segs pulls a face but they go back to back to christening the apartment easily enough.

By the time they make it to the master bedroom, it’s the day before they’re due to go to their summer camp, and Tyler is pretty sure he’s pulled a muscle in his groin from all the boners. Segs is looking wary of his dick every time they make out and get a little randy, so Tyler decrees their last night to be sex free, and Segs looks so relieved, he laughs so hard he almost chokes.

 

They’re lying in bed, the air conditioner going strong and Marshall at the foot of the bed, tangled together and wondering what to expect at camp, when Segs sits up and looks at Tyler.

“You said you’d loved me for a long time. How long is a long time?” he asks, and Tyler sighs.

“Why does it matter? I just… it happened. I love you, that’s what matters,” he gets embarrassed when he says it, especially when it still gets such a reaction from Segs, and Tyler rolls his eyes as Segs gets that goofy smile on his face.

“C’mon tell me,” Segs wheedles and Tyler grits his teeth.

“Since… I dunno, since Plymouth! Since… Plymouth, alright?” he exclaims, and watches for the look of horror to come over Segs face, watches for something – _anything_.

Instead, Segs’ smile only gets wider.

“Really? Me too,” he says and leans down to kiss Tyler, again and again until his protestations die between them, and his decree gets forgotten between the slide of their bodies. Later, much later, Segs whispers against his neck that the only reason he dated his ex was to make Tyler jealous. Tyler can't bring himself to vocalise how fucked up he got over the whole thing, but the way he kisses Segs, urgent and sad and needy, he figures Segs gets it.

 

(Tyler thinks he’s dying the first day of camp. Segs doesn’t look any better, and his limp is obvious as fuck. Tyler loses count of the amount of times he whacks the younger boy with his stick, face flaming red, and tells Segs to _lose the gimp._ )

 

 

**Philadelphia**

Segs goes to Switzerland for the lockout and Tyler definitely spends his time sulking between games and Skype dates. He doesn't understand why Segs doesn't just play for Providence; at least they'd be in the same country and it's easier for Tyler to visit. Regardless, it doesn't last for long before the season is back on and everyone's coming home - including Segs, who spends two whole days in Glens Falls with him, making it up to him with spectacular blowjobs and apologies muttered against his skin.

Danny Briere is injured three games into their shortened season, and while Tyler didn’t think he exactly _impressed_ at Flyers pre-season camp, he gets a phone call from the front office and is told to fly up to Philly that very night. Laviolette scares the ever-loving Christ out of Tyler, and he’s probably shaking like a fucking leaf when he meets him and the other trainers when he arrives.

 

“Why me?” he asks Laviolette as the meeting ends, and the guy looks like he’s torn between pity and smacking Tyler around the head.

“You impressed in camp. You’re developing well, everyone has only great things to say about you in Adirondack and your stats are on chart. Time to impress me, prove you should stay up.”

Tyler wobbles out the meeting and joins everyone for the morning skate – he spots Sean soon enough, and spends most of the skate receiving instructions from the tall ginger, and trying not to hopelessly embarrass himself gaping at the likes of Claude Giroux as they skate past him. 

When he checks the schedule for the team they’re due to play, his stomach drops right through his feet.  Hartnell and Voracek come up behind him, and Hartnell drapes an arm across his shoulder.

“Big game for you to come back into. Just be thankful it’s not against the Pens or the Rangers,” he says and Voracek rolls his eyes.

“Boston are just as important,” he says and Hartnell releases Tyler to start beating on him. He decides not to tell Segs they’ll be playing together; god what if they end up on face-offs together? Holy shit, he can’t handle this.

 

 

The big night arrives and Tyler’s starting on the second line with Wayne and Brayden, and he can’t stop his knee from jiggling madly in the locker room. Hartnell, sitting in the stall next to him, hits him twice, and Claude and Sean both hover in front of him and tell him to treat it like any other game – AHL, NHL, same shit.

“You’ll be great,” Claude says and Tyler gulps.

“I’m not Danny Briere,” he says back and Claude straightens up, hauling him upright as he goes.

“No, you aren’t. Nobody’s asking you to be. Be Tyler Brown.”

He follows Sean out, stuck between him and Voracek, and the roar of the stadium is deafening. When he gets out onto the ice, the Boston team already announced, he can almost feel Segs’ eyes burning on him.

 

(The kit manager tells him he’s allowed to wear the 18 as soon as he gets there, since it’s his number at Adirondack and was his number at Plymouth as well; he’ll be framing this fucking jersey the second he gets off the ice, and maybe even the puck if he can get one. The ridiculousness of the number, that he picked 18 because Segs was 19 and they wanted to sit together, isn’t lost on him either.)

 

He’s packed on the muscle during the summer, and he’s upped his face-off stats, and while it should be fucking _anyone_ but him, he can’t help but wonder if he’ll end up fighting for the puck against Segs. Claude starts in the first line with Hartnell and Voracek, and before he knows it he’s being whacked on the back and clamours over the boards and onto the ice.

It’s like everything goes silent the second he steps onto it.

 

He can feel the swish of his skates against the ice, can hear the puck sliding across the ice to land on his tape, and can see Chara lurking in front of Tim Thomas in goal, a fierce look in his eyes. He flicks a saucer to Wayne, and it lands on his stick so perfectly; everyone’s expecting him to take the shot, so much so that nobody’s eyes are on Wayne, and he scores in the bottom right hand corner as the sound rushes back into Tyler’s universe. He’s collected into an orange and white pile against the boards, Wayne and Timonen screaming in his ears, and it feels like he fucking scored the goal himself. He barely holds onto his stick, barely makes it back to the bench where he’s met with thumps and yells. Laviolette looks insanely happy.

Tyler watches Segs skates past and Tyler smiles at him, and Segs flicks him a thumb up and then proceeds to level their scores. Tyler’s raring to go, and then they’re tied 2-2 and there’s two minutes left on the clock, because of course it was going to get to this. Boston are good, but so are Philly, and it was always going to end like this.

Segs is on the ice and Coach smacks him on the back and tells him to get out there – it makes no sense but he knows these things, so Tyler just follows Wayne and Brayden onto the ice, and skates like his life fucking depends on it. Segs is impossible to catch, weaving and dekeing around him, but Tyler muscles him off the puck and sends it straight to Brayden, who battles with Chara and Seidenberg before he sends it back to Tyler.

Somehow, some stroke of fucking fate or luck has him onside, has him left unattended, and the puck lands on his tape and he taps it in, sends it sliding past Tim Thomas and then the final bell goes, just after the goal bell, and he’s buried under a pile of orange this time as everyone leaps on him.

 

 

The headlines online all read the same thing: 3-2 to the Philadelphia Flyers, with the rookie Tyler Brown scoring an assist and a goal on his debut. Laviolette tells him to stick around, Brayden tells him not to get used to it because Briere will be back (with laughter in his voice), and Claude hands him the puck and tells him to frame it – or something.

“I will,” Tyler croaks out, clutching his shirt and trying not to cry. By the time he showers and packs his stuff away, the kit manager’s blessing to keep the jersey and the puck wrapped up in his toiletries bag, he takes a photo of his stall and posts it to twitter.

 

_@tylerbrown1856 Goal and assist for the Flyers on debut, not bad 4 a rookie… sorry @tylerseguin92_

 

Segs is waiting for him outside the dressing rooms, looking awkward, and Tyler grins and loops an arm around him, dragging him towards the entry.

“I think dinner’s on me tonight, bud!” he announces and Segs laughs and wrestles away from his grasp.

“One NHL game and you’re already top shit? Getting a little ahead of yourself – Briere’ll be back,” he says and Tyler shrugs, drawing Segs back against his side.

“He can fight me for his spot. I’m not giving it up without one,” he says and Segs looks around as they walk to the car park, deeming them safe enough before he shoves Tyler against a SUV tucked right the edge and kisses him _hard_.

“You have no idea how fucking horny I got, holy _shit_. Playing with a hard on in my jock was the most painful shit ever,” he gasps out when they surface for breath, and Tyler huffs out a laugh in his face.

“You deserve it,” he chirps back and Segs bites his lip before sinking to his knees.

“Segs, _no_ , anyone could see us-” he gasps out, but he’s already hard and Segs’ mouth is on his dick and just, _yes_.

 

“You’re gonna be the fucking death of me, Tyler Seguin,” he says and Segs pulls off and laughs, eyes sharp in the darkness.

“Not if you kill me first, Tyler Brown.”

**Author's Note:**

> I can’t figure out how they met Jesse Blacker or became besties, but apparently most rookies know each other somehow, so whatever. More handwaving there. I'm also not sure where their Jersey house was/is located, so I just picked Stone Harbour because apparently it's quite popular for young people or something. 
> 
> And a lot of the guys I mention from Plymouth and Adirondack are ripped straight from their team lists on the official team websites or Wikipedia, so if they don't quite fit into tylersquared's timeline, my apologies.


End file.
